Cinnamon
by rscoil
Summary: Modern AU Thanksgiving oneshot. Erik learns the art of pie making.


Erik set the box down and moved to unlock his door. From across the hall, the aroma of baking pie called to him. At least, he assumed that was what it was.

He maneuvered the box toward his refrigerator and began unpacking his groceries. All of the TV commercials told him that he was supposed to be thankful for something, and right now he was thankful for grocery delivery services.

The last thing in the box was a frozen dinner of turkey and mashed potatoes. Even he wasn't immune to advertising, and always found himself with a craving for turkey in November.

But there would be no cheery Thanksgiving for him. It would be another day, alone in his apartment with TV dinner turkey. Fantastic.

The architectural drawings spread on his dining room table were doing nothing to help his mood, nor the half-finished composition in the music room. Both projects felt like trying to unravel a pile of knotted rope. Every time he pulled on it, a new knot would form. He began to wonder if it was worth the trouble to fix the mess.

There was a soft knock on the door. He opened it, surprised to see a tiny woman standing there.

"Hello!" she said with a smile. If she was surprised by the mask, she gave no indication. "I'm in the middle of baking and I've run out of cinnamon. I don't suppose you have any I could borrow?"

"Oh." It took a moment for his brain to process her request. "Yes, I think I do. Wait right there."

He retrieved the container from his spice shelf and offered it to her. "Will this work?"

"You bet!" She beamed at him. "I'm Helen, by the way. Helen Giry. I live across the hall."

"I'm Erik," he said uncertainly. "Whatever you're making, it smells really good."

"I'm making pies for tomorrow. Every year, I say it's the last year, but here we are!" She shrugged. "I'll have to make an extra one for you as a thank you."

"You don't need to."

"I know, but I _want_ to. Assuming you eat pumpkin pie, that is."

"I can't say I've ever had the homemade kind. Store bought is decent."

"Honey, no. Just no." Her face lit up. "Would you like to learn?"

Erik was taken aback. "You would teach me?"

"Of course! This is a dying art in my family. We've got to teach the kids. Come on over in ten minutes." She was back across the hall before he could respond.

Erik sighed. What did he have to lose?

* * *

An hour later, Erik was standing in her warm, rooster-themed kitchen.

"And now," Helen was saying, "You'll need to turn on the mixer."

Erik looked at the mixture of eggs, pumpkin, and spices in the bowl, and the can of evaporated milk he was still supposed to add. He eyed the offered hand mixer with apprehension. "This is going to spray everywhere."

"Don't worry too much. It'll be fine if you go slow."

Erik turned the mixer on, letting it go on the low setting. Soon, he decided to turn the speed up. The mixture was nearing a uniform consistency and he was gaining confidence. Just another minute…

His hand slipped and a thin ribbon of pie filling splashed across his apron. As the sound of the mixer died away, he became aware that Helen was laughing.

She stood level with his shoulder. Where the splash had hit his chest, her face was in the line of fire. He'd given her a smattering of new freckles.

"I am so sorry, Helen."

"Don't worry about it," she laughed. "Just about any kitchen mess can be cleaned up. That's the great thing about cooking."

"Still-"

"I won't hear another word about it," she said as she wiped her face. "What's the use of learning if you can't make mistakes along the way?"

Erik shook his head. "You know, you are a very wise woman."

"And don't you forget it!"

* * *

There was a homemade pie cooling on his counter, filling his kitchen with its warm scent. He felt tired, but satisfied with his day. It was a feeling he normally associated with composing, yet it didn't seem out of place tonight. His drawings and the new composition could wait. Sleep was calling.

He set the mask on the bedside table and crawled into bed. The false face seemed to glow in the dim light of his alarm clock.

On the side of the nosepiece, there was a dark spot of pie filling.

Erik chuckled to himself and rolled over. He'd wipe it off in the morning. After all, it was a mess he could clean up.


End file.
